


I'm Searching For Something That I Can't Reach

by LayALioness



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Casper Fusion, Ghost!Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 22:15:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5022538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy snorts. “I thought it was every ghost’s prerogative to haunt people.”</p><p>“The novelty wore off a few decades ago,” she says, straight-faced. “Now, it’s just—I show up eventually, slam a few doors, rattle a few windows, play with their dog if they have one.”</p><p>Or, Bellamy moves into a haunted house. Clarke's the one doing the haunting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Searching For Something That I Can't Reach

**Author's Note:**

> For laviecammecicammeca
> 
> Sorry this took so long! I have no explanation, beyond Reasons, so.
> 
> Title from Ghost by Halsey because I'm predictable.

When Marcus first said that they were moving into a haunted mansion, Bellamy thought he was kidding.

“You’re serious?” he asks, frowning up at the giant decrepit building before them.

“Deadly,” Marcus says with a straight face, and Bellamy gives his most unimpressed look. The terrible ghost puns got old within the first five minutes of Marcus picking him and O up from the hospital.

They’ve been living with their uncle for the last four months, which is mostly okay because he lets them eat whatever they want, and he always springs for the hotel rooms with free wifi—but it also means that every few weeks, when he finds a new job, they have to pack everything back into the shitty Station Wagon that he refuses to part with, because apparently it once saved him from a haunted birch tree.

Now, Bellamy has seen a lot of unexplainable things over the last four months, so he’s willing to accept the tree story at face value, but he really doesn’t see why that means he has to suffer through a shady muffler and some truly awful wood paneling.

He glares up at the place—it’s _huge_ , but no one’s been taking care of it for twenty years, so it’s pretty shabby. It looks like it should be condemned.

“I think it’s neat,” Octavia chirps, coming up beside him. She’s jiggling on the balls of her feet a little, clearly anxious to start exploring. She’s just turned ten, and everything around her is suddenly _neat_. She actually _likes_ Marcus’s job, and brags about it to all her friends at school. None of _them_ have relatives that hunt down ghosts for a living.

“You would,” Bellamy snorts, and she pinches his side. She’s into pinching lately, too. It’s a pain.

Marcus cheerily ignores them both, as usual, scooping the duffel bags out of the trunk of the car. He hands one to Bellamy. “Ready?”

That’s all the permission O needs before she’s taking off towards the enormous front door.

“Don’t get eaten by a dead person,” Bellamy warns, and she turns so he can see she’s rolling her eyes.

“This isn’t my first haunted house, Bell,” she says haughtily, and disappears inside while he grumbles.

As far as haunted houses go, this one seems relatively quiet. There are a few doors shutting by themselves, but softly, and mostly because of the drafts. It creaks like any old house would, but there aren’t any static-y TV’s, or box filled with creepy doll heads, like in the last one.

Marcus is acting different too, and Bellamy’s trying not to freak out about it. He really _should_ be happy, actually, that his uncle isn’t prowling the hallways at night with beeping electronics and enormous rubber goggles strapped over his eyes. He should be glad that he’s not coming home from school, only to walk in on a half-finished exorcism, or a pile of creepy doll heads on fire in the middle of the floor.

That case might have left an impression on him.

But instead of feeling relieved that his uncle is just pouring over old books all day, Bellamy can’t help being anxious. He’s constantly waiting for the ball to drop, tensing up for the inevitability.

“Did he even say why he thinks the place is haunted?” he asks, spearing a French fry with his spork. He hates getting the salt on his fingers.

Octavia makes a face like she always does. The town is small enough that the school is Kindergarten through twelfth grade, which Bellamy is impossibly glad for. He always hates being separated from his sister when they end up in some new, strange place. He’ll just spend all his class time worrying about her, and get nothing done.

She sneaks a fry from his plate, even though she has her own. “He said there’s treasure in it.”

“So now he hunts treasure _and_ ghosts?”

O shrugs, dismissive. She probably doesn’t really care either way; she’s just excited to live in a mansion. Even if it is really shitty, and freezing cold at night. “I think it’s ghost treasure or something.”

Bellamy plans on asking Marcus about it when they get home, but Octavia’s decided to join the soccer team for some unknown and mysterious reason, and so he has to wait for practice to end before he can drive them back in the shitty Station Wagon. He’d honestly rather be driving a hearse, at this point. The car starts making some horrific rattling noise whenever he goes above thirty.

 So by the time they reach the mansion, he’s too busy feeling relieved they made it back alive, and stressing over the Bio lab that’s due in the morning, to even think about Marcus and his mysterious haunted treasure.

He’s still up at a little after one AM, working on the stupid Bio lab. His vision’s going blurry, so he keeps having to rub his eyes—his contacts are drying out, and he should really change into his glasses, but his legs are too tingly for him to really use them. He feels like his brain’s about to leak from his ears.

Which is why it takes him a minute to react, when a quiet voice whispers “Boo!” right behind him.

“What,” Bellamy says, spinning around in his chair to stare at the girl.

She’s a little see-through, and hovering a few inches off the ground, and by this point Bellamy’s seen enough ghosts to recognize one.

But he’s never seen any his age, or _cute_. It’s a little disconcerting. He must be more tired than he thought.

She’s looking at him, one eyebrow raised, amused. Her lips are pursed, like she’s fighting a laugh.

“You must be the ghost,” he says, and she smiles.

“And you’re this week’s trespasser.”

“Hey, I’m not trespassing,” Bellamy shrugs. “I live here fair and square. My uncle signed a lease, and everything.”

The ghost girl floats over to gingerly perch on his desk, even though he’s pretty sure she’s just posing. She could easily just fall through it, if she wanted.

She even crosses her legs, which—he _knows_ this must be weird, and so beyond the normal levels of fucked up that his life has become lately, but. She’s _cute_. She’s wearing one of those dresses with the loose skirts, from the fifties, and her hair’s a pale blonde, in thick curls around her face. She looks impossibly put together, for how dead she is.

“I’m Bellamy,” he says, and stretches out a hand. Ghosts vary, he’s learned over the months, but usually they appreciate good manners, and this girl’s no exception. She looks charmed, despite herself.

“Clarke Griffin,” she chirps, reaching over and sliding her palm easily through his. It’s a shock of cold, like someone stuffed ice down his shirt, and he shivers. She grins, and then glances down at his notebook. “What are you working on?”

“Uh, Biology,” he says, a little bemused. In the past, most of his conversations with ghosts have mainly consisted of them explaining why they’re stuck in this plane of existence, and asking him for help. Marcus usually does all the talking, or exercising, depending on whether or not the ghost is a dick. He’s not really used to incorporeal small talk.

“Oh, that’s my favorite one!” she says, delighted, leaning closer to study his notes.

“Really,” Bellamy says, skeptical. He doesn’t doubt the ghost’s intelligence, but he does doubt that Biology’s her favorite anything. Biology’s not _anybody’s_ favorite.

“I _have_ been educated,” she says, a little harsh. “There are several books in this house. And I read whatever the renters bring in.”

Bellamy studies her—she’s still glaring pretty fiercely, and it’s a little intimidating, but mostly it’s just intense. He wishes he could touch her hand, or something, to calm her down. Show her he means it.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he promises. “I just— _Biology_? It’s so boring.”

Clarke’s mouth quirks up. “It’s not,” she says, pointing to his book. Her finger dips into the page a little. “It’s _life_ , and everything’s connected to it. Biology is what keeps you attached to the world.”

“I thought that was physics,” he grins, and she huffs.

He goes to finally change into his glasses, because his eyes are stinging too much to ignore, and when he gets back she’s still sitting on his desk, reading the textbook. She doesn’t even glance up when he walks in, so he takes a few moments to just watch her.

She’s barely even transparent, really. He can still see the pattern on her dress; cream-colored, with little blue butterflies all over. It ripples when she kicks her legs back and forth, showing him a few more inches of pale skin each time.

“How come you only showed up now?” he asks, and she jumps a little, making him smile. _He’d_ snuck up on a _ghost_. She shoots him a half-hearted glare.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve been here for eight weeks,” he shrugs, crossing over to flop down on his bed. He’s too tired to feel really self-conscious about it—if she’s too scandalized, she can just walk out through the wall.

But she just shrugs back. “I didn’t notice.”

Bellamy snorts. “I thought it was every ghost’s prerogative to haunt people.”

“The novelty wore off a few decades ago,” she says, straight-faced. “Now, it’s just—I show up eventually, slam a few doors, rattle a few windows, play with their dog if they have one.”

He grins a little, charmed. He can’t really help it. “You play with their _dogs_?”

“Or cats,” she says. “I’m not picky.”

“So you don’t always help them with their science homework?”

She’s still mostly opaque, so he can’t really tell, but—he thinks she’s blushing. He’s pretty sure, anyway. It’s a good look for her.

“No,” she says, prim, turning back to the book. “Not _always_.”

“Is it just you?” he asks—in his experience, ghosts tend to travel in groups of two or more. They feel safer that way, and it’s probably nice, being around others of their kind.

“Right now it is,” she shrugs. “My Aunts—Lexa and Anya, the two spirits who lived here before me—are on sabbatical.”

“Sabbatical? What’s that like?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Clarke says, amused. She’s probably used to more screaming and running away, not an impromptu late-night interrogation. “I haven’t been on one.”

He means to stay awake, to keep looking at her, asking her questions like _What the fuck is_ mitosis _, anyway?_ just to hear her make that little exasperated sigh she gives. He means to, but the rest of him must not get the message, because suddenly it’s morning and his phone is playing that obnoxious _Tik Tok_ song that Octavia set as his alarm.

He opens his eyes to find Clarke laying next to him on the mattress. She’s doing something to the window above his head, running her finger along the glass in a pattern. When she notices him staring, she drops her hand down to her lap.

“Morning,” she says, soft.

“Morning,” he echoes, voice rough with sleep, and she smiles a little before just disappearing through the floor.

He stares at the space she’d just been in, and then glances up at the window to find his face, smooth with sleep, painted through the dust with sure strokes. She’d even added his freckles.

He takes a picture of it with his phone, but it doesn’t come out right, hard to see with the sun poking through the glass.

“Did you know there’s a ghost living in the mansion?” Bellamy asks, starting the car with a grimace. It’s already shaking around them.

Octavia buckles her seatbelt in the backseat. “You mean Clarke? Yeah, duh. I met her, like, the second day.”

Bellamy frowns at her in the mirror. “Does Marcus know?”

“I think so,” Octavia shrugs, already bored with the conversation. “He said she didn’t know anything about the treasure, so that means he probably asked her about it.”

Bellamy tries not to wonder what it might mean that their cute resident ghost girl showed herself to everyone but him within the first two months.

She slept in his bed, though—that has to mean something, right? She _drew a portrait of him on the window_. Maybe she was just shy. He’s pretty sure she’s from the fifties. That was one of the sexually repressed decades, right?

But wasn’t that also when _Grease_ was set? They had sex in _Grease_. Maybe he should rewatch the movie, for research purposes. To understand her a little better. He’s pretty sure they have the soundtrack on itunes. Maybe he should look it up.

Maybe he’s overthinking this.

“Maybe she just likes me and Marcus better,” O speculates, snatching pizza dippers off his tray. He’s pretty sure she just likes stealing his food, because it tastes better that way.

Even without him telling her, she’s figured out Clarke only _just_ introduced herself to Bellamy. Octavia thinks it’s hilarious.

“As always, your insight is overwhelmingly helpful, and appreciated,” he says wryly, scooching his plate away from her grabby fingers.

“I think she’s lonely,” she says after they have a quick but vicious war over the last pizza dipper. She bites into it thoughtfully. “She can’t leave the house, and she doesn’t have any friends there.”

“She’s a ghost, O,” Bellamy argues, but there’s no real heat to it. He’d gotten that impression, too. There was something sad about Clarke, even when she smiled.

He imagines it can’t be a very nice existence, locked away alone in a crumbling mansion. He wonders why it is she’s still here, what unfinished business she might have.

He wonders if he should try to help her—if he even _could_. If he’d even want to.

“Ghosts are way lonelier than people,” Octavia says firmly. “There’s less things for them to do, and they can’t go anywhere.”

That was another thing they’d learned over the last few months; ghosts had to stick out the first hundred years of their afterlife in the place where they died. Bellamy had always thought that more than a little unfair—having to be constantly reminded of their worst day. A cruel joke from the universe, that isn’t even that funny.

“What, so you want to be her friend?” he asks, and Octavia rolls her eyes, exasperated. She always seems to be exasperated, these days, which he doesn’t really get. She’s _ten_ ; she shouldn’t be this much of a cynic. He’s pretty sure it’s his fault.

“I’m already her friend,” she says, like it’s obvious. “I meant _you_ should be her friend. You don’t have any friends, either, so you two already have something in common.”

“When did you become such a brat?” he wonders, mostly genuine. She sticks her tongue out.

“The same time you became an a-hole, so, always.”

Bellamy grins. Even when she’s being a brat, Octavia’s still uncomfortable swearing. He steals the last pizza dipper off her plate, but he’s not sure it counts since she lets him.

He’s expecting Clarke to stay hidden again, at least until dark, but when he goes up to his room after school he finds her laying on her stomach across his bed, with one of his worn-through _Narnia_ books opened up on his pillow. He thinks it’s _The Silver Chair_ , but he can’t be sure.

Bellamy means to ask if she’s read the book, or if she likes it, or what she’s done all day, or any of the dozen charming questions he has ready in the back of his mind.

But instead he says “O said you introduced yourself to everyone else before me.”

Clarke doesn’t startle, or even glance up from the book, but he can see half of her face from this angle, and he’s pretty sure she’s blushing again.

“That’s right,” she says, noncommittal. She waves a hand over the book, and the next page turns with a flutter.

Bellamy drops his bag to the floor and crosses over to flop on the bed next to her. If she’s uncomfortable with it, she gives no sign, and now that he’s closer, he can see she’s _definitely_ blushing. It makes him grin, slow and cocky.

“You were scared of me,” he guesses, smug, and Clarke scowls down at him.

“What is there to be scared of?” she scoffs. “You’re essentially an overgrown puppy. With admittedly good taste in literature.”

“Hey,” he protests, “You don’t know me. Maybe I’m a mass murderer, or something. Maybe I’m a _ghost_ murderer, and you’re my next kill.”

Clarke levels him with a very unimpressed look. “You can’t kill me,” she says primly. “I’m literally untouchable.”

“Has anyone ever _tried_?”

She’s gone back to the book now, apparently bored with the conversation. “To what? Kill me?”

“Touch you.”

At that, her head snaps up, almost comically fast, and she stares at him with wide eyes. He doesn’t laugh, because he’s a good person, but it takes a lot of self-restraint.

“You can’t,” she says, dismissive. But it’s clear she’s trying very hard not to care. “Ghosts can only influence certain things—we’re like a breeze. We can move dust, and doors, and sometimes even books,” she grins a little sadly. “But we can’t _touch_ things. Or people.”

There’s not much Bellamy can say, because all his responses seem a little underwhelming. Finally he decides “Well I still think we should try,” and reaches up to tug on her hair.

His hand falls through her curls, as expected, but what isn’t expected is the _cold_. Bellamy has met ghosts before, and even spent some time with a few, so he knows they essentially feel like a burst of winter air.

But with his hand roughly where her shoulder is, every inch of him suddenly goes frigid. His teeth start chattering, and he shudders, pulling away while Clarke just shrinks in on herself.

“I made you cold,” she says, apologetic, and Bellamy waves a hand while trying to scoot under the covers.

“ _I_ made me cold,” he argues, “By not listening to you. Sorry.” He reaches over for his bad, doing his best to grab it while staying under the blanket. He pulls out his English textbook and flips to the assigned reading, glancing over at Clarke.

She still looks wary, and a little concerned, but she’s stretching back out again, which is a good sign.

“So, how much do you know about Hawthorne?” he hedges, and she grins.

 

“Is Clarke your girlfriend now?”

Bellamy chokes on his hot dog, and then glares at his sister, who’s been watching him with disdain. “What?”

Octavia gives an impressive heavy-sigh-eye-roll combo. Then she sees someone she knows across the courtyard, smiles brightly and waves, before going back to glaring at Bellamy. “ _Clarke_. Are you guys dating, yet?”

He supposes it’s a pretty fair question, for a ten year old. He and Clarke have been spending their nights together for weeks, now. He nearly always falls asleep next to her in bed, and wakes up to her drawing. This morning he found a portrait of Octavia on his window, surrounded by butterflies. He took a picture of it to show to O.

There’s still no sign of her ghost Aunts, and he can tell she’s getting worried. She’s been inching closer to him each night, so he’ll wake up with cold feet and arms where she’d been laying pressed up against them. He always tries to wait until they’re numb, before pulling away.

He’s trying to get up the nerve to ask what happened to her. How she died. She’s given him bits and pieces, over the nights—how her mother was the most well-respected nurse in the country, and her father helped design and build aircraft carriers for World War II. How she was best friends with the servant’s son, Wells, even though the other kids made fun of her for it. How she loved art and science, and learning, more than anything, but everyone expected her to just settle down and raise a family, like a respectable girl.

How her first kiss was the neighbor girl, mostly because she wanted to do something unexpected. But then she kept kissing her because she liked it, and she told him that, too.

How her father died in the War, when she was small enough that she barely remembers him. How that eats away at her, sometimes, that she never really got the chance to know him.

“Clarke’s dead, O,” he frowns, which isn’t really a no.

Octavia scoffs. “So? You guys like each other, and it’s not like you have any _live_ girls showing up at the door.”

Bellamy squints at her a little. “Who raised you? Why are you such an asshole?”

“You did,” she chirps, unoffended. “So you have no one to blame but yourself. Seriously—why haven’t you asked Clarke out, yet? She’s totally gonna go and get a ghost boyfriend if you don’t get your act together.”

Bellamy sighs, because—it’s not like she’s _wrong_. He does like Clarke, he likes Clarke a scary amount, and if she was just a neighbor or classmate with a pulse, he would have asked her out in a heartbeat. But she’s not; she’s dead, and he can’t even _hold_ her. He doesn’t get even that.

It’s not like touching her is all he wants to do, but— _God_ , he wants to touch her. He has this idea that her hair would smell like lavender, and he really wants to test that theory. He wants to get her some charcoal and a sketchbook, so she has more than just an old window plane and dust. He wants to know what she feels like, when she’s not made of incorporeal ice.

“Maybe she should get a ghost boyfriend,” he muses, picking at the remains of his lunch. The side for the day was chickpeas, and he doesn’t really understand why. Aren’t chickpeas one of those things that always shows up in post-apocalyptic bunkers? Because no one wanted to eat them in the first place? “At least then they could kiss.”

Octavia flicks a chickpea at the center of his forehead, which he probably deserves. “Don’t be such a boob,” she orders.

She’s about to say something else, when suddenly a boy slots himself in beside her on the bench, looking at Bellamy, excited.

His name is Jasper, and he’s in Bellamy’s gym class, which he only knows because his go-to gym buddy for the year has been Miller, who’s friendly with Jasper’s best friend and forever-gym-partner, Monty. High school is essentially made up of convoluted and confusing spider webs of acquaintanceship.

“Is it true that you live in the Old House on the Hill?” Jasper asks, eyes wide, and Bellamy blinks a little, confused.

Octavia’s eyeing the new guy like she can’t decide whether to introduce herself, or bite him, which is never a good sign.

“Uh, I live in _a_ house, on _a_ hill. It’s pretty old. Why?”

“Oh man, oh man,” Jasper says, bouncing up and down in his seat. “That house is _so haunted_ ,” he grins, and Bellamy and Octavia go rigid. Jasper doesn’t seem to notice. “And tomorrow’s Halloween—so you know what that means, obviously.”

“Enlighten me,” Bellamy says, words clipped.

“You’re hosting the party, dude,” Jasper says, like it’s obvious, and Bellamy stares at him.

“No,” he says, “No way.” Octavia kicks him under the table, and he glares at her. “ _No_ , Octavia. Marcus won’t allow it.”

To be fair, there was a pretty good chance Marcus _would_ allow it, simply because Marcus tends to get lost in his research and not really pay attention to whatever people ask him. It’s how Octavia ended up with her i-pod.

“We’re _definitely_ hosting the party,” she tells Jasper, who whoops and jumps up, presumably to spread the news to the rest of the universe, within the next five seconds. Once he’s gone, O turns back to Bellamy. “Come _on_ , Bell—a Halloween party on Friday night? It’s totally a sign. You can ask Clarke to dance with you.”

Bellamy wouldn’t call himself the _worst_ dancer in the world, but he definitely falls under the category of people who _don’t dance_ , and instead just sort of nod along to the music and watch. Bellamy’s idea of a party involves board games and _Jaws_ , because the last party he went to was in the sixth grade.

“You’re a menace,” he snaps, but Octavia just grins back at him.

“You’ll see,” she sing-songs. “You’re gonna owe me so big, Bell. I’ll accept cash, or a Nintendog DS.”

Bellamy’s fairly sure his kid sister’s going to be a bookie when she grows up, or maybe a very successful salesperson.

Bellamy finds Marcus in his study that afternoon, readjusting some sort of mining helmet with a headlamp attached.

“Hey Uncle Marcus, I was wondering if I could have a few friends over tonight,” Bellamy hedges, awkward and uncomfortable because he still doesn’t really know how to ask people for things. When his mom was alive, he and O used to do their own thing, never asking permission before leaving the house or ordering pizza, forging permission slips here and there, finding their own lunch money.

But now they have Marcus, who’s at least _trying_ to be a responsible adult, which means suddenly they have to let someone know where they’re going, and when they’ll be back. He bought them cell phones for _emergencies_ , but he’ll send them an average three texts a day, just to check in. Sometimes the messages won’t be anything but a cactus emoji, which Bellamy still has yet to decipher.

Marcus glances up from his project, which isn’t a good sign. It means he’s actually aware of and engaged in the conversation, so there’s a chance he’ll say no. He looks at Bellamy sternly. “How many friends? What kind of get together is this going to be?”

He should probably just tell him the truth, that he’s been accidentally coerced into hosting a Halloween party. Marcus won’t care, Marcus loves Halloween. The mansion is decorated like one of those haunted trail tour houses, with bats and cobwebs dangling from the ceiling, and a giant skeleton’s hand as a knocker, that plays the Addam’s Family theme when buzzed.

“Uh, just a few,” Bellamy shrugs, and Marcus frowns harder.

Clarke steps out of the nearest wall. “Don’t worry, I’ll chaperone,” she offers, and Marcus visibly relaxes.

Bellamy isn’t sure whether or not he should feel insulted, that his uncle trusts a ghost more than him.

In the end, he decides not to, because Clarke does seem very trustworthy, and anyway she got Marcus to say yes.

“I’m going to be down at the church,” he says, strapping on his helmet. “Conducting a séance with the original owner of this house. I expect everything to be intact by the time I get back.”

“Roger,” Bellamy says, and sees him out. Once the Station Wagon has disappeared down the hill, he glances over at Clarke, where she’s leaning against the wall—even though she could just step through it. “Well, that was easy.”

“I did all the work,” she teases. “You’d be totally lost without me.”

She’s grinning, bright and a little pink around the edges, and Bellamy’s mouth goes dry. She really is _very_ pretty.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Come one, help me set up snacks and shit. I’m the best host.”

It only takes him ten minutes into the weird horrorbilly soundtrack someone’s plugged into the speakers, so the whole house shakes with punk songs about zombies, before he just tries to sneak out.

He’s made his rounds, alright? Said hi to all the people he knows, if only a little vaguely, chatted with Miller and Monty a bit, showed people where the bathroom was, and the kitchen, and the back porch when they pulled out a cigarette. He’s _great_ at hosting.

She’s on his bed, right where he was hoping to find her, rereading _Something Wicked This Way Comes_ for what has to be the fourth time.

She grins up at him, expectant, as he toes off his shoes and falls down beside her. “You barely lasted ten minutes,” she teases, and if he could, he would shove her.

If he could, he’d do a lot of things.

“How did you die?” he asks, because the sun is setting and she’s glowing in the light, and if he doesn’t ask now, then he probably never will, and he desperately wants to know. He wants to know everything about her.

But, mostly, he wants her to tell him, because she trusts him with this.

Clarke looks a little startled, but not very upset. “Brain aneurism,” she says, a little ruefully. “I was just standing in the kitchen, talking to Wells, and the next thing I knew, I woke up in the graveyard. Only, I wasn’t me. I came home, but no one could see me—except Lexa. She’d lived here before my family, and Anya had lived here first. They helped me…adjust, to life as a spirit.”

“So when do I get to meet them?” he asks, and she smiles. “I’m serious! You’ve already met my whole family.”

“Isn’t meeting the family a couples thing?” Clarke asks, wary, but Bellamy just nods.

“Yeah. So is kissing, but if you were alive, I’d want to do that with you, too.” He should probably be mortified, admitting to his ghost best friend that he has a crush on her, but instead he feels weirdly calm about it. Now she knows, and it’s her move. There’s not much else he can do.

It’s possible he had some of the moonshine Monty offered him earlier. His mind feels very soft, and languid.

Clarke eyes him a little, before leaning down until her mouth hovers just over his. His eyes droop with every inch she gets closer, until he feels the cold shock press to his lips.

His eyes are closed, so he can’t see her, but she’s humming a little, and the pressure of the cold gets stronger, like she’s trying to deepen the kiss.

It doesn’t feel like much. Air. Snow, maybe, up against his mouth until it goes numb, and she pulls back a little, just enough to lie down beside him.

He rolls over to look at her, and she folds her hands under her head, face and neck tinged pink.

“I wish you were alive,” he whispers. He hasn’t said it out loud before, because it felt like too much. He’s been wandering the hallways at school, noticing all the dickhead bullies, and the manipulative teachers, and he’s been silently fuming about the unfairness of it all, that they get to be alive and breathing and warm, while Clarke doesn’t.

“Me too,” she says, just as soft. He reaches over to take her hand. It’s just more cold air, but he can almost pretend.

“Octavia said I should ask you to dance,” he says, light, and Clarke laughs. “So you’d go out with me.”

“You should have just started with that,” she muses.

“Maybe,” he shrugs, standing up to pull his shoes back on. The music is still raging on below them, and he’s sure there’s some attempt at a mosh pit starting up in the living room. He should probably also check on the snacks, and make sure no one’s thrown up in any of the fancy vases.

Clarke follows him out, slipping her hand in his on the stairs, and he grins.

They’ve just finished refilling the bowl of pretzels, when the front door slams open to reveal two fierce-looking, relatively see through women, with Marcus lagging just a little behind.

“I take it those are the Aunts,” Bellamy guesses, and Clarke nods.

A bunch of kids are taking pictures with their phones. Some of them had been complaining earlier, about the lack of any paranormal activity, so the sudden arrival of _two_ bonafide ghosts has certainly made an impact.

“Everyone out!” one of the Aunts—the scarier one, with long curly hair and sharp cheekbones—bellows. “ _Now_.” She glows a little, an impressive green, and the teenagers scramble for their jackets and shoes, before spilling out the door.

Now it’s just the Aunts, Marcus, Bellamy and Clarke, and Octavia over in the corner, which she’d turned into a sort of coat check, charging people two dollars to babysit their stuff.

She really is a tiny entrepreneur. It’s a little scary.

“Bellamy, Clarke!” Marcus calls, grinning wider than Bellamy’s ever seen.

But Bellamy knows that tone of voice—it’s the _just solved a case_ voice, and he feels his heart sink. If Marcus has solved the mystery of the mansion, that means they’ll be leaving soon.

Which means he’ll be leaving Clarke.

“I’ve found it!” Marcus declares, marching over, waving some sort of old Vaseline glass bottle in his hand. “Well— _we’ve_ found it,” he corrects, giving a sidelong glance to the Aunts, who are busy standing off to the side and glaring at everything equally.

“What _have_ you done with the decorating?” the curly-haired one sniffs.

“Terrible taste,” her sister agrees, and Clarke sighs, good-naturedly.

“Anya, Lexa, these are my friends,” she introduces, pointing at each of them in turn. “Marcus, Octavia and Bellamy.”

The Aunts just glare at the three of them in turn, before frowning back at their niece.

“The old one called us away from sabbatical,” Anya says, gruff.

“Very inconvenient,” Lexa nods, but Marcus just huffs a little and ignores them.

“We’ve done it,” he says again, coming up to stand in front of Bellamy and Clarke. Octavia’s made her way to them too, probably for lack of anything better to do, now that they’ve crushed her small business. “We’ve found the treasure!”

The three of them eye the dirty bottle a little dubiously. Some sort of liquid sloshes around inside, and could be anything. It’s the color of rust, with flecks of gold floating around the top.

“What is it?” Clarke asks, and Octavia reaches out to poke the bottle. Bellamy snatches her hand back and sighs.

“The gift of life,” Marcus says proudly, holding it out to their resident ghost. “We’ve all agreed—you should have it. There’s really only enough left for one.”

Clarke takes it, albeit warily, and shares a glance with Bellamy before brushing her hand over the top so the cork falls out. “It’s not like it can kill me,” she shrugs, and then chugs the liquid down.

Not much happens, at least, not much that they can see. One moment, Clarke is semi-transparent and floating a little over the ground—and the next, she’s completely tangible, a little flushed, and stumbling from landing on the floor too hard.

She drops the bottle in her surprise, but the glass is thick enough it doesn’t break, and the Blake’s are gaping back at her, while Marcus just watches it all a little smugly.

Then Octavia whoops and leaps over into Clarke’s arms, and when they finally step back, Marcus steps in to hug her next, and then she’s standing just a few feet from Bellamy, but he still isn’t sure he can move.

“Are you okay?” she asks, and she’s very obviously trying to play the whole thing off, but he can tell she’s nervous.

That’s really what does it for him, in the end; he can still read her, even now. He _knows_ Clarke, and now she’s standing right in front of him, his for the taking.

They surge forward at the same time, and then he’s got his arms around her, and her hands are brushing up his back, like she’s not really sure where to start. Like she wants to touch _everywhere_ , and doesn’t have the time.

Except—she does. They have time, now, and he laughs, ducking his head into the crook of her neck.

They have to pull apart eventually—both to breathe, and because they’re surrounded by their families. Bellamy really doesn’t want the first time he _really_ kisses his girlfriend to be in front of his ten year old sister.

“You knew about this?” Clarke asks her Aunts, and they share a look Bellamy can’t decipher. Clarke seems to though, because she rocks back on her heels with a slow smile. “Thank you.”

“You were always a pretty terrible ghost,” Lexa deadpans.

“We did our best, but you just never got the hang of haunting,” Anya agrees. But Clarke just laughs and shakes her head at them.

She’s tangled her hand in with Bellamy’s at some point, and neither of them really want to let go. It feels almost natural. Like they fit.

Clarke’s the one that gives in first, leaning up to press her mouth against his, humming just like before. Except this time, he can taste her—and she doesn’t taste like embalming fluid, or mothballs, or anything else he’d assumed dead people might taste like. She tastes the way old paper smells; comforting, and warm. There’s a little mint in there too, and Bellamy pours himself in, licking through her mouth to chase it.

Clarke gives a little whimper, before pulling away with a smile. She looks up at him through her lashes, and he suddenly realizes she’s very _short_. She must have been constantly hovering near his eye-level, so she wouldn’t have to look up.

“That one was definitely better,” she grins, and he laughs, ducking down to kiss her again. But she’s still smiling too much, so he trails his mouth along her jaw, her cheek, the skin behind her ear until she shivers.

“Yeah?” He brushes his nose along her skin, just breathing. She doesn’t smell like lavender, but she does smell like the ocean, and he’s pretty sure that’s better.

She nods, shaky in his arms. He’s biting at her neck, now. He wants to see how long it takes to make her bruise. She’s pretty pale; it probably won’t take much, which is _awesome_. “But we should probably practice some more,” she decides. “To make sure we really get it right.”

“Practice makes perfect,” he agrees, and she leans up to kiss him.

“Exactly.”

Someone knocks on the door, and they jump apart, laughing, still too giddy _not_ to. But when they open the bathroom door, no one’s there.

Music’s streaming in from down the hall, and Clarke tugs him towards the sound, even though he was planning to just relock the door and continue where they left off.

They make it to the living room, where O has hooked up the i-pod some unlucky party guest managed to leave behind.

“I’ll take it to the lost and found tomorrow,” Octavia shrugs, hitting the shuffle button.

Marcus offers her his hand, and lets her take the lead, even though it means he has to stoop down hilariously.

Across the room, Anya and Lexa are doing a very aggressive Jitterbug.

Bellamy feels Clarke tug on his hand, and looks down.

“You owe me a dance,” she grins. “And you still haven’t asked me out, yet.”

He curls his hands around her waist, because he doesn’t really know any other dances, and she folds her hands around his neck so they can sway. “Clearly, I’d be lost without you,” he says, and she flushes.

He’s giving them two minutes before they sneak off to go make out in a closet. Maybe five minutes, depending on if they like the song.

 _Kiss From A Rose_ slinks out through the speakers, and Clarke presses herself even closer.

“You still haven’t told me why you waited so long to meet me,” Bellamy hedges, and pulls back so he can see her blush.

“I was gearing up for it,” she admits, a little rough. Like she’s annoyed he hasn’t figured it out, himself yet. “You’re very—broad.”

Bellamy raises an eyebrow. “Broad?”

Clarke goes pink all over, and frowns at him. “I hadn’t had a crush on anyone for sixty years! I didn’t know what to do—it was all very confusing.”

Bellamy _knows_ he’s grinning stupidly, he can feel it, but he also can’t stop. “You had a crush on me?”

“You had one on me too,” Clarke snaps, defensive. “So we’re even. Everyone got what they wanted.”

Bellamy smooths his hands up her back until she melts against him again, with Seal crooning along in the background. He leans down to press his mouth against her hairline.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I definitely did.”


End file.
